


that power over me.

by thepapernautilus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s04e20 Small Potatoes, F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV Dana Scully, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: "Small potatoes indeed — they could bruise if you threw them hard enough at someone." How Mulder and Scully handle the events of Small Potatoes. MSR.





	that power over me.

_you’ve got that power over me, my, my_

_everything I hold dear resides in those eyes_

_the only one I know, the only one on my mind_

_power over me - dermont kennedy_

They do not talk about the time she almost kissed him — or, well, she _thought_ she almost did. 

It was one of the few things irrevocably off the table for both of them. Embarrassing childhood memories, deepest seated fears, hopes and dreams, all exposed and laid bare over cups of bitter stale coffee in rental cars and on hopeless stake-outs together. This, however, had been a wound to Scully’s self-esteem that she nursed for months after and something Mulder refused to speak of entirely for reasons only known to himself. Small potatoes indeed — they could bruise if you threw them hard enough at someone. 

During that time she was consumed with a cancer inside her brain, eating up all her happiness and dreams and leaving nothing but blinded nostalgia and feverish loneliness in its’ wake. He had showed her unexpected tenderness in a time of fragility and thusly charmed her with an open ear and a good Chianti. How could she possibly even _begin_ to resist him? None of the training she’d ever suffered through could have ever prepared her to say no to this of all things, fraternization be damned. Her partner, best friend, closest confidant, giving her that attention and compassion she had so _dearly_ needed, now all of times, death as close as a friend to her… and he was there, open forest eyes and impossibly pillowy lips and that slightly crooked smile… she was absolutely powerless. 

That was all it took for her, huh? What an easy, slutty date she was. Her best friend swoops in and gives her the time of day just fucking _once_ and she’s as hungry as a dog for him, already thinking about how she’ll steal away to put on that fancy china blue lace set she’d purchased after she kisses him so hard it makes his universe tilt irrevocably, good thing she’d just washed the sheets with that fancy lavender wash, good thing she knows just how he likes his coffee in the morning black-and-sweet-as-sin, willing this painfully beautiful thing to just destroy her life already, because it may as well, after all, her life was forfeit in the end, may as well get one decent romance out of the mess. 

She should have known from the start something was amiss in Scully’s Dreamland, shouldn’t she? Mulder would never come over just to “talk” to her, despite what she told herself as she nursed idle fantasies under the safety of night. The idea was downright laughable, Mulder beseeching her voice for any reason other than to counter it. He was not separate from The Quest For The Truth, and neither was she in his universe, the one she relentlessly revolved around no matter how she tried to fight his gravitational pulls. She was one more tool, one more piece of the puzzle, for him to acquire and use and place as needed on the chessboard in order to acquire The Truth. Scully did not guile herself with the notion he cared for her seriously in any other capacity, at least, he didn’t have the emotional fortitude to express that in any meaningful way. 

She figured he wanted her in some way, possibly sexual, maybe just. His all-consuming craving to be attended to. She saw — how could she not? the way he escorted her from room-to-room with a hand at her waist, the way he held her close and inhaled her hair like a lover would during tough times, couldn’t have possibly missed his a million and one flirtations and insinuations, even on this case. (“Should we be picking china patterns or what?” What the _fuck_ did _that_ mean, huh, Mulder?) 

His face was the strangest, most vivid part of that night in her mind’s eye. When he broke open the door (and how did he know that Van Blundht would come for her first?) and saw the scene — fire-lit and impossibly romantic, not-Mulder’s arm between her spread legs, flirtatious and improbably forward, her lips parted, poised for the kiss still to come, the wine, the sickly slow jazz on the stereo set… she saw his eyes rove over the scene and face fall, almost in… disappointment? That curious fall of his eyes circled her mind that entire night after in picture-perfect quality.

He didn’t ask her any questions, even then. Just read Van Blundht his rights, and thank god, Van Blundht offered no fight, allowing himself to be cuffed willingly and dragged into Mulder’s rental to be dumped at the police station with strict orders for a 24-hour armed guard and a heavy dosage of tranquilizers. He left Scully alone in her apartment, left her to pick up the two half-empty glasses of Chianti and the potato gnocchi gone cold she’d had for dinner, to quiet the fire and shush Al Green before he could destroy her heart once more.

The knowledge she’d almost been raped by Eddie Van Blundht was one thing. The knowledge she would have kissed Mulder heedlessly if he so much as shared a bottle of wine with her was quite another, and she paced her apartment restlessly the entire night, taking up cleaners and sprays and rags and cleaning the entire place top to bottom in a fit of stress, Beethoven’s concertos rocketing the stereo set now, cleansing her apartment with heady chemicals and mellifluous choirs. If she scrubbed the floors hard enough, the memory would go away. If she rearranged her bookshelves enough times, she could forget about it. If she folded her linens perfectly enough, squared away as a sailor, maybe she could cheat death again. 

The worst part was that she had no one to talk to about _any_ this. Melissa was six feet under still, her mother couldn’t even begin to process this information, and the one person who would understand, the one person who had seen all the weird and bizarre and simply unexplainable shit she had seen was probably four out of six bottles into a six-pack at this point, knowing Mulder as she did. They were both purging the memory of tonight in their own ways, hers in the divine fire of cleaning, his in the clean tonic of alcohol. 

She expects at least one off-handed comment when they return to work that Monday, but there’s nothing. Mulder, who even dared to mock her at her darkest for so much as looking at another man, had nothing to say on the matter to her. He’s there before her in the basement and only responds by throwing her the case report and asks her to sign and merely mentions that she can add any comments. He’s cleverly edited around certain incriminating details that would paint them in a bad light — merely says Van Blundht, disguised as him, went to Scully’s apartment, and Mulder came into the rescue. No wine, no fire, no jazz music. How sterile. Skinner would never let them live down the incrimination of fraternization so boldly there, no way no how. Van Blundht was a serial rapist but only disguised as someone the individual would already go to bed with. 

She thanks him for this one thing, at least. She feels no need to bare herself in this way to the FBI and signs her name with a flourish and passes the papers back over to him. And this is how they begin to pretend that “that night” never ever happened, no-siree. When years slide by and the office burns down and he saves her, naked and trembling, from Antartica’s iciest grips, she expects at least a mention of “that night”, but there’s never anything. She lets this slide for a long time, even after she goes to bed with him, finally, _finally_ , but no further. She has a curiosity she must settle and refuses to let Mulder skirt by “that night” any longer.

—

“Do you remember Eddie Van—“

“Oh my god, Scully, no—“

“No, no, I want to talk about this. We _can_ talk about this, can’t we, Mulder?”

“I’ll have you know that name still wounds my very soul.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll survive. But do you remember, when he came to my apartment?”

“Vividly.”

“Well, okay, yes. But… I’ve always…. wondered, Mulder, when you saw… what was happening… what did you think?”

“What did I think?”

“Of what you saw.”

“I mean, isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“I thought, ‘that could have been fucking me,’ is what I thought. If I’d taken a single fucking second to think of anyone else except me in my pathetic life, to think of you, I could have… been with you. Loved you. Been loved by you. Way earlier on, Scully.”

“I want to… reassure you, but you were right. One hundred percent, Mulder. That could have been you. So easily.”

“Van Blundht knew what women wanted. Not a show of bravado and suaveness, but just… someone that would listen to them. Love them. Notice them. That’s all anyone wants in this world, really.”

“Is that all you want?”

“Of course. Haven’t you noticed by now literally everything I do is a way to garner your attention?”

“I might have noticed.” 

“You _might…_? Oh, I’ll have you notice.” 

And notice she did. 

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: literally my favorite episode of all time haha. was really fun to write this little thing. thanks for reading!


End file.
